


Who You Gonna Call?

by Macx



Series: Gray Areas [17]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Beel is in deep deep trouble, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, True Name, vengeful demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-19
Updated: 2005-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught between a rock and a hard place, what's a demon to do? Call for an angel, of course. By his true name...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who You Gonna Call?

The demon sitting on the hard metal chair, without padding, painted a mint green that hurt the eyes, was quivering. His eyes were huge, the colour of burnished orange, and the pupil was a round, black splotch in the centre. He was facing a much taller, stronger and very much irate demon at the moment, a demon who was none other than the Prince of Hell himself.

Beelzebub had his hands folded, resting them on the yellow table that made your nose bleed with its highly polished top, gazing at the hapless creatures with a stony expression. Red eyes burned into the orange ones.

"I believe you recognize these?" Beelzebub asked coldly and nodded at three innocent looking books that had been stacked on the table, just right of the powerful demon.

Craig swallowed and nodded. He wasn't a stupid demon, just a lower one with aspirations to be more than he could ever be. Even when in Heaven he had written and kept journals, but back then his brethren had been rather disinterested in him or them. He had fallen in with the wrong crowd and taken a nose dive in the end, a fallen angel.

After his Fall he had had a lot more success. When humanity had flourished, he had become famous. But fame was a fleeting thing, and he had overdone it in the end. By now, with the top breathing down his neck for invoking a 'diplomatic incident', every single one of his comrades had turned their backs on him.

He was alone.

And he was facing Beelzebub.

Who had found all but one of his diaries still left in the human world.

"Uh," Craig stuttered. "I think so."

"I think so, too," Beelzebub snarled. "They are your diaries, filled with mostly idiotic stuff, but there is also rather delicate information in there. Highly sensitive information." He leaned forward. "Classified information," he growled, a buzz accompanying the two last words.

Craig gulped. He glanced at the three diaries, shaking in his boots.

"Where did you get it?" Beelzebub demanded.

"I…ah… well… you see…"

"Where, Craig?"

He whimpered.

"If you think what has happened so far was bad, wait till I'm done with you!" the Prince of Hell snarled. "Do you know what these abominations caused? Two incidents that could have cost us our very existence, you fool! You left classified information to the humans. About. Us! You left us wide open for an attack, for total elimination!"

Craig shrunk down even further. "But it was only meant as a joke…"

Beelzebub was close to just ripping the lower demon apart. "A joke?" he echoed, talons growing. "You call that a joke? You call a human entering Hell undetected and stealing our secrets and weapons a joke? You call our near-destruction a joke?"

"No, sir," was the whine.

"You left your diaries in the human world, you moron! The books were harmless, but demonic diaries? Who ate your last piece of intelligence, Craig? And where did you get the information?!"

Craig swallowed and a shaking finger pointed at the books. "I… I wrote the names down. It's in there."

Beelzebub buzzed in anger and grabbed the nearest book. "In here?" He brandished the book. "It's trash and endless yapping!"

"I encoded it. On page five… there's a code."

Beelzebub's eyes narrowed, then he opened the book.

 

 

There was a flash of light.

No sound.

Just the violent discharge of magic.

And then nothing.

 

 

Craig blinked and clawed his way out from under the table where he had dived for cover to. He took in the charred remains of his diaries with a mournful expression, then checked hurriedly for any demonic presence in the room with him. Specifically a presence of the Beelzebub kind.

There was nothing.

He started to grin.

"So cool," he whispered.

Craig had been aware of the power build-up in his books. He knew that if there was one thing someone shouldn't do, it was to stack more than two of them together. At least for a prolonged amount of time. They were so old and so charged and so dangerous, they fed off each other and a lethal amount of energy collected in one spot. Opening a book would mean a terrible blast.

Not that he believed that something like this could hurt Beelzebub. No, the Prince of Hell was too powerful for that. But it had probably flung him far, far away. Far enough for Craig to get a head start.

So he hurriedly left the room.

By the time Beelzebub got back, he would be gone, leaving false trails, running for his life.

Craig had no illusion that he could run forever. Just long enough to find a kind soul to maybe send him somewhere else, into another dimension or realm. Sooner or later Beelzebub would give up.

 

 

Had he known that the 'diplomatic incident' was personal for the more powerful demon, that illusion would have popped like a bubble. But Craig didn't know.

And he had no clue just where Beelzebub had ended up.

 

* * *

 

He knew it was bad when he woke by the whole feel of his environment alone. It was buzzing, vibrating, trembling, and his body was aching to get away from here. Beelzebub didn't need to be a powerful demon to realize that there was holiness around him. He also didn't need a lot of intelligence to gather that this was a bad place to be.

But when he opened his eyes, all his fears of where he might have landed after his untimely transport by the power discharge from the books, were topped by the realization where he was.

Red eyes were impossibly wide, reflecting utter terror.

No sound left his lips.

He was frozen in the horror that was creeping along his spine.

Around him, marble and gold and expensive wood shone in the muted light. Ancient stone seemed to press down on him, making it hard to breathe, even for a being that didn't need to. He was on his knees, appropriately, and his eyes roamed fearfully around the vast building.

Coloured marble incrustations, stucco figures, rich gilding, mosaic decoration, and marble figures on the pilasters, ceiling, and walls. The panelling of the pavement in geometric figures was of coloured marble.

"No," he breathed. "Blessed… no!"

People walked past him, not seeing the kneeling demon in the alcove that gave him a perfect view of everything. Everything terrible and frightening. People avoided being there – because they felt unwell where a creature of Hell was starting to tremble.

Beelzebub stared at his hands, wondering why he wasn't smouldering. He should be. Well, he should be a pile of quickly disintegrating ash, too. No demon could last in a holy place for long.

Especially not here.

And then he felt the faint fizzing, saw a little trickle of Hellish energy fight against holiness. He saw a thin shield, a bubble encasing him. Whatever energy had gathered in Craig's diaries, it had also created a very flimsy protection against what was bombarding Beelzebub from the outside.

It wouldn't last long.

He gathered his power and tried to catapult himself out of this terrible, nightmarish place. 'Tried' being the operative word.

Instead of being free of this place, he only got whacked between the eyes with a sledgehammer, and a slice of holy power cut into him. He cried out, unheard by the many visitors, collapsing forward.

No… he thought faintly. NO!

Through tearing eyes, Beelzebub witnessed the believers come and go as he lay curled up in the alcove, moaning softly as his body fought off the attack, all the while very much aware of his disappearing protection.

It wouldn't be much longer and he would feel the power of Him.

Just before his existence was extinguished by it.

A weak smile curled his lips.

What a fitting way to go.

Inside St. Peter's Basilica.

 

* * *

 

In Hell, a demon had just packed what little he needed and disappeared.

No one noticed.

No one thought much about Beelzebub's absence since their boss had been dealing with Craig, and whatever he was doing with the lower demon, it would be done somewhere else. Several demons breathed a sigh of relief. Others chewed on lower lips in worry. They had known Craig, had been affiliated with him.

In a hurry, a lot of books, whose author had been Craig, disappeared.

 

* * *

 

"At the beginning of the Christian era the Vatican hills were a surrounding quarter of Rome, where the Circus of Nero and Caligula were located. Years after, Saint Peter was buried here -- at least this is what the legend says. In 313 The Emperor Constantine orders the construction of the first Basilica. One thousand years later, the Vatican was chosen to be the Catholic Church headquarters…"

The middle-aged woman with the slight Italian accent walked past the alcove, trailed by a dozen tourists. Men, women, children. Some were taking pictures, others craned their necks to take everything in.

No one saw or heard the demon in the alcove.

 

 

Beelzebub was at the end of his emotional and physical endurance. He had suffered through a service, but thankfully the pope had not appeared. His gratefulness had been shattered into tiny pieces and the demon reduced to a tightly curled up bundle of utter agony when the pope had come to greet the masses.

Beelzebub thought he had lost consciousness throughout the service. He couldn't be sure, but when he woke, he was alone again and it was night.

His feverish, pain-filled mind could only think of one thing.

And he whispered a name.

 

* * *

 

Michael, archangel, His second in command, and currently up to his ears in thrice damned forms that cluttered his email inbox, stiffened.

Gabriel, who had been helping him out with sorting through old files and sending what was no longer needed to the Archives, did the same.

"Michael?" he stuttered.

Blue eyes widened and Michael rose abruptly. "I… I have to go," he managed.

Gabriel was well aware of the Summoning, but he didn't know that it was more than a very fervent prayer by a devoted Believer, though he felt the power and urgency that was behind the call for an archangel. What he didn’t sense was that it was a true name calling which few angels ever experienced, if at all. Gabriel had never been Summoned in all his existence, and neither had any of the other archangels. And certainly none had ever reported a human knowing their true names.

"Michael!" he called as his friend and fellow archangel hurriedly left the office.

 

 

Michael didn't know what was going on. This didn't feel like the Summoning from six months ago, when a rather amateurish Summoner had managed to tear him out of this dimension and seal him away in a bubble that had nearly killed him. This was a deliberate call, without any kind of ceremony, and it was urgent. It spoke of need, of an emergency, of someone in great agony.

His name.

Spoken by a voice that had relayed all that.

Only his name.

No wish, no elaborate incantation.

The archangel gathered his power, singled out the Summoner, and… frowned.

The Vatican? Someone inside the Vatican had called? If it was a priest or the highest of them himself, he wouldn't be surprised that they had found an angel's true name, though they probably didn't know what kind of power they now possessed over him. Humans rarely did, even if they were His children, Believers, or of the cloth.

Oh well…

He had to go. There was no resisting the call.

And Michael left for Earth.

 

* * *

 

It was night in Rome. The Saint Peter's Basilica had closed at ten and the last worshippers or tourists had left a long time ago. Now only those who had a duty being here took care of the incredible House of God. They were walking among the aisles, switching off lights, blowing out candles, and checking for things left behind.

Finally, around midnight, silence descended on the empty tomb.

Beelzebub smiled weakly. Yes, a tomb. His tomb.

Never thought that this is the way I'd go out, he mused, his mind sometimes too scattered to catch a clear thought. You must be laughing Up There. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

He whispered Michael's name, his generally known one, adding an apology.

The shield around him was cracking and he knew it could go any minute now. What had already leaked through the sieve it had become was bombarding his body, eating away at the natural shields a demon had against too much divinity, and he was hurting non-stop now.

There was a radiant presence all of a sudden and he turned his head a little from where he lay curled up. Red eyes reflected a shadow of more life, a little amusement at his predicament and who his most likely saviour was.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe Michael would just watch him die. The angel would be well aware the moment he saw his caller, that Beelzebub had discovered his real name.

Yeah, it was fun while it lasted. Too bad we didn't get to take this a bit further, he thought dimly.

 

 

Michael had been to the great basilica several times in the last centuries. It had been interesting to see the work of so many humans take shape until the result was a magnet for so many Believers – and tourists.

Standing in the silent House of God, he tried to get his bearings as to where the Summoner was. He should be right upon him, he mused.

"You came," a weak voice rasped.

Angelic eyes pierced the darkness and what they saw took his non-existent breath away.

"Beel?"

"Yezzz!" the demon buzzed painfully. "Get me out!"

"You… how did you get here?!"

"Can we talk about this later?" He hissed in pain, starting to smoulder. "Mike!"

Michael still stared at him, unable to comprehend how a demon was able to withstand the power of divinity in this most holy of holy places. And how Beelzebub had made it here in the first place. And why… how… he had been called by him. He had been called by Beelzebub!

"MIKE!"

The scream was filled with such agony, it tore through his soul and he finally acted.

Summoning his angelic powers, he whispered a spell and Beelzebub disappeared. For a brief moment, before there was only a void where the demon had been, Michael saw the absolute agony reflected in the red eyes, and he murmured an apology. Getting an emergency transport by an angel, while the transportee was a demon, wasn't very nice. It was actually quite painful.

Then he followed to where he had transported his lover.

 

* * *

 

Beelzebub lay on a small field of grass, on his back, spread-eagled, eyes semi-closed in pain. His breathing was sporadic, even though he didn't really need to, and his wings twitched a little. He was still in full demon mode, but all demonic traits were shrinking down as he was shutting off those parts that needed too much energy. He had little to spare.

When he was flooded by a wave of angelic power, all he could do was whimper soundlessly.

"Beel? Beel, are you all right? I'm sorry I hit you so hard, but it was the only way to get you out of the Cathedral," Michael called.

"Mike…" he managed, wincing away from so much holiness.

It hurt.

It was such agony.

Nothing Hell could ever come up with could compare to an angel's halo slicing through a demon's unprotected soul.

"Beel!"

"Ha-lo," he begged.

"What?"

"Shut… down.. your…blessed… ha-lo," he croaked.

Immediately the power receded until it was just a little thrum in the back of his tortured mind.

"Sorry," the angel whispered. "I didn't realize that. How do you feel?"

"Like.. shit…"

The archangel knelt beside him and caressed the bruised and dirty face. Beelzebub gasped as healing power touched him. It wasn't nice, but it wasn't too bad either. Angelic healing was a bit like getting your hair pulled with wax. A brief pain, but relief later.

"What happened to you?" Michael asked.

"Got… blasted."

"I noticed." A smile appeared on those angelic lips.

"And he's dead meat!" Beelzebub managed.

"Who?"

"Craig!" His voice took on more force and Beelzebub felt his anger fuel his body. "The little weasel! He knew what would happen! He was waiting for this! I'm sure he ran! When I get my hands on him…!"

His fingers twitched weakly, curling a little. He couldn't even manifest his claws again, drained as he was.

A soft chuckle distracted him and he stared at his lover.

"What's so funny?!" the demon demanded.

Michael couldn't help himself, he started to laugh more. "You," he snickered.

"Oh, thank you for your compassion, angel! I'm suffering here! I spent hours… days… in that blessed church! Holy ground, Mike! Holy ground! Because of that brainless moron of a lower demon!"

Michael sat down, still laughing. "I know, I know. And I'm sorry."

"But you still think it's funny," Beelzebub grated.

"Kind of."

He huffed.

Gentle fingers combed through his dirty, sweaty hair. "I'm glad you're all right."

Beelzebub felt the anger drain a little. "Yeah, well, thanks for helping me out there."

The fingers were still in his hair, but the movement was thoughtful now, slower. "Beel?"

"Hm?"

"You called me."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I tried everything, but nothing worked, and it was becoming quite… difficult… so I called the only one I could trust to get me out and not take advantage of my weakened state."

"You called my name."

Beelzebub frowned, then realization as to what he had done set in. Michael's name. His true name.

Oh.

Shit.

"I… yeah…"

"How do you know my name?"

The fingers had stopped and a very serious archangel was looking at him.

"Uhm, could we discuss this somewhere else? At home maybe? I don't feel so good, Mike…"

"We talk now, Beel. How do you know my name and since when?"

The voice was sharper now, without mercy.

He evaded the cold blue eyes, the eyes of an angel he had known since before the beginning of time, and it wasn't the angel who he had slept with on a regular basis in the last eighteen months.

"I've known for about six months," Beelzebub finally answered, gazing into the sky.

Nice clouds, he thought.

"Six… months? And from whom did you get it? How many others do you know by name?!"

"It was on the seal that had trapped you."

Michael stared at him, aghast. "You… you saw it, too?"

Hearing it was one thing, but seeing the name…

"Yes."

"Who put it on the seal?"

"The Summoner. And before you ask, he found it in one of Craig's diaries."

The archangel was pale as a sheet. "Dear Lord…"

Beelzebub winced. "Mike, please?" he begged.

"Why… why didn't you use it sooner?"

"Uhm, maybe because I had no need to? This was an emergency, you know. Getting nearly melted qualifies for angelic help. Mike, it was my only way out."

The angel got to his feet and started to pace. "I… I'm a liability to Him," he whispered in emotional agony. "A demon knows my name!"

"Uh, Mike?"

He was ignored as the archangel agonized over the newfound information.

"You could use it to… to trap me… I'm practically your slave."

"Mike, stop it!" he bellowed, which wasn't really that much of a bellow. More of a weak cry.

"You have power over me!"

Beelzebub tried to get up, but his body didn't really listen to his mind's commands. "I won't use it against you!"

"Who else knows?"

"Mike…"

"Who. Else?"

"Crowley and Aziraphale, and they won't use it either!"

Michael was radiating with his panic and Beelzebub moaned weakly, each nerve ending in his body on fire. He curled up weakly, trying to escape the wildly flashing and spiking aura, but a rather vicious strike hit him full centre and he screamed.

The aura died down and cool hands touched his face. A voice whispered apologies.

He weakly grabbed at one wrist. "I won't betray your name to anyone," he murmured. "Never."

"You're a demon."

"I'm also honourable," he replied. "I won't reveal it. Believe me, Mike. I won't."

There was a moment of silence, then soft lips brushed over his forehead. "Let's get you home."

Beelzebub sighed softly. The angel didn't believe him, didn't trust him in this matter. But he had told the truth. He knew the true name of this most powerful of the archangels, His second in command, but he would never abuse that knowledge.

Michael held out a hand and he managed to raise his hand enough to grab it weakly. He was pulled to his feet, his knees buckling immediately, but Michael caught him. Beelzebub allowed himself to go completely limp against the angel, then his mind darkened as the archangel gathered power to get them home.

 

* * *

 

Home was a nice little flat in London that had been rented under the name of Michael Beel. No one had batted an eye about the two. No one bothered them as long as the rent was paid, and Michael made sure it was. It consisted of a spacious bedroom, a nicely cut living room, a kitchenette, and a balcony that wasn't used aside from sunrise or sunset couplings. Not that anyone ever saw them. If anyone did, making love in the open, they would forget what they saw and just find themselves a bed partner to work off their hormones.

Michael had transported them right into the bedroom, where Beelzebub curled up under the covers with a groan. The angel couldn't but reach out and touch the black hair, check the aura, and Michael grimaced at how weak his lover was.

"How long were you there?" he inquired.

"Too freaking long," was the muffled reply. "Long enough for the blessed pope to address the masses."

Michael winced. It was pure luck that Beelzebub wasn't even worse off than this.

"You were lucky."

"Don't feel lucky."

He smiled a little. "Probably not."

Michael was about to rise when Beelzebub turned over, wide red eyes reflecting a hint of panic. "Are you leaving?"

It made his heart clench and he automatically shook his head. "Just making you some tea," he answered. "Relax."

He walked into the kitchenette, puzzling over those strong feelings of having to be here. Just looking at his lover, how badly he had suffered, had made the need to go back to his job and office work, evade his fellow angels and their questions about the summoning, no longer important.

Beel needed him. It was a strange feeling, but also elating.

Michael pushed it away, not wanting to think about it too much.

 

* * *

 

Beelzebub recovered quickly outside the basilica, back in England, in their flat, in a soft bed, and with an angel pacing around. Well, not really with the latter. That was downright distracting. While the demon was weaker than he was used to, he was still stronger than a sick human might be. Actually, his strength and power resources were about the level of a human being right now, which was rather frightening.

Michael was spreading nervousness and fear everywhere, despite his fight to keep himself under control. He had been bustling around the apartment, making tea, sandwiches, or even going out to buy cookies because he 'felt like it'.

The demon understood him. Beelzebub had never wanted Michael to find out about his knowledge concerning the angel's name. Whoever knew a true name could do all kinds of horrible things to the other.

He didn't plan to do anything.

Demons were not by nature dark and evil creatures. They were fallen angels, after all, and divinity had been within them once. That demons were usually seen as evil incarnate was a human conception. Beelzebub wasn't going for the misunderstood version of it all, but he refused to be categorized. Even the lower ranks of angels fell for that, and it irked him from time to time. He didn't make a sport out of torturing anyone, and while he liked to see sins committed, it was for the same reason that Heaven promoted all those virtues: points for their side.

"Mike," he said softly and reached out to stop the pacing angel.

Blue eyes that reflected a myriad, rather painful, emotions gazed at him. At least Michael didn't flinch away from his touch.

"I'm not going to use it again," Beelzebub repeated what he had said over and over and over in the last hours whenever the angel had been in any mood to listen.

A shudder raced through the slender form. "This never happened before," Michael murmured.

"Probably not."

"I cannot trust you with this, Beel!"

"Then you have to kill me."

Michael stared at him, aghast. "What?!"

Beelzebub shrugged and spread his arms. "If you do not trust me to keep your true name to myself, you have to kill me. Probably Aziraphale and Crowley, too."

"No!"

"Then you have a problem, angel."

Michael raked a hand through the blond hair. "You're a demon!" he exclaimed. "I… you know my name… and I… I'm a liability now! You could… what if… I mean…"

Beelzebub wrapped an arm around the quivering shoulders and pulled the distraught being into an embrace.

"I swear to you, by my honour, I give you my word, I will give you every oath you demand… I will never use this knowledge against you, angel. Never."

"Why?" came the muffled question. "It's the perfect weapon. To strike me down."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

Michael looked at him and Beelzebub smiled a very soft and charming smile. "We're Enemies."

"By description, yes. But we're not at war, nor are we fighting, and we've been a lot more than that for a while now, hm?"

The angel swallowed and tore his gaze away. "Yes," he confessed.

Beelzebub caught his lips, trailing a soft path to one ear, nibbling at the lobe.

"You're safe."

Michael answered the contact with a hard kiss of his own, desperate and needy and trying to erase what had scared him so much. Beelzebub let him, answered and responded in kind, and he smiled as they ended up on the bed.

"Silly angel," he whispered against one ear as they moved together, friction hot and stimulating.

Blue eyes, old as time, gazed up at him. "Am I?" Michael murmured, then moaned softly.

"Yesss," he hissed and kissed him hard, swallowing the response.

 

 

Michael gazed at his lover, took in the slender, sinewy form. Beelzebub lay on his stomach, hands pillowing his head, and the red was filled with lazy warmth as he met the angel's eyes. Michael stroked over the strong back and enjoyed the warmth, the texture, the strength.

This was his lover.

A demon.

The second most powerful in Hell.

And he had to trust him with his true name. The thought was painfully deep inside, making his soul churn. True names were sacred because of the power they held over the owner. If you gave your true name to someone other than Him, who knew it already, you gave away your independence, because you could become a slave of the other.

Michael shivered a little.

Beelzebub turned and sat up, gathering him into a loving embrace. "Silly angel," he repeated and suddenly they were wrapped in black feathers as demonic wings materialized.

He feared this power Beelzebub had over him. It robbed him of something vitally important. It might not be of consequence while Heaven and Hell were at peace, but what if there was another Apocalypse in a few millennia? He couldn't be trusted to lead the Hosts. A demon would then be able to control him.

Beelzebub kissed him, soothed him, murmured softly.

Michael sighed and his hand touched one of the shiny black feathers, stroking over it in an absent-minded manner. If not for the colour, there was no difference in feel or texture. It was still of angelic origin, even if the owner had Fallen.

The demon opened the embrace and Michael met the next kiss with a bit more fervour, sighing when Beelzebub caressed his sides.

"You make it hard on yourself, Mike," the demon told him, eyes serious.

"I cannot trust you in this matter, Beel. I just can't…"

The demon regarded him for a very long time, then wordlessly lay down again, on his stomach.

"You know your choices," he only said.

Michael knew them only too well. Kill Beelzebub or learn to trust.

His hand strayed to the wonderful wings again, stroking over the delicate appendages, taking in the so familiar strength and the so unfamiliar colour. His thoughts were whirling. He knew he should go to Him, tell Him what had happened, then request an immediate relief from all duties. He might be able to keep his place, but he would never be who he had been before.

His second in command.

Because a demon knew his name.

Michael played with the soft down at the roots of the wings, smiling as he detected a familiar purr.

And he froze.

His mind screeched to a halt.

And his hand came to rest over the left joint that connected the wing to the demon's body; the root.

Beelzebub had his wings out.

In his presence.

A demon was turning his winged back to an angel… and let the angel touch him.

"Beel?" he stuttered.

The dark head turned and the lazy expression was only betrayed by the glint in the red eyes. He was looking at a demon who was tightly coiled deep inside, doing something he had never done before for anyone.

"You… you…" Michael was at a loss. "Why?"

"Because I trust you with my wings, Mike," was the soft reply.

Michael stared at the demon, then his eyes flickered to where his hand rested on the delicate connection. He wrapped it around the root joint, slow, careful, feeling every down and patch of skin, the bone underneath.

"I could break this so easily now," he murmured.

"But you won't," Beelzebub answered just as softly.

The fingers tightened briefly, but never enough to hurt, then opened and splayed over the bone, stroking up. "No," he breathed. "I won't."

The red eyes were still filled with such incredible tension and Michael shivered inside.

"And I won't reveal your name," Beelzebub promised, his voice soothing and yet relaying the tremors of his tension.

Michael let his hand come to rest between the wings, on the patch of skin that was so sensitive on his own body. He leaned forward, over the wing, and pressed a kiss to his lover's temple.

"Give me time to understand, Beel."

"All you need."

He rubbed his palm over the skin and heard the purr increase. It was a deep rumble, full of contentment.

"You didn't have to do this. I know how much this takes out of you."

"Not as much as the dilemma you face takes out of you, Mike."

Wings folded, feathers brushing over Michael's skin, and the demon turned on his back. Michael leaned over him, gazed into the familiar face.

"I might be a demon, but that doesn't mean I take advantage of everything," Beelzebub explained. "It's make-believe. Humanity's make-believe."

The archangel straddled him and looked down into the open face. "Give me time," he just repeated.

Nimble fingers stroked up his sides and over his chest, teasing already perky nipples.

"Speaking of which… we should use what we have left," Beelzebub murmured seductively. "I have a date to keep with a rogue demon I want to teach a lesson."

Michael leaned down, a predatory smile on his lips. "Is that so? I'm on a time limit now?" The blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well, we should make the best of it then, Beel." He nipped at the inviting skin. "And when you find that weasel, leave some for me."

Beelzebub rumbled. "Can't promise that, angel, but I'll do my best."

The next kiss was deep and hungry. Slow and sensual, but still very much arousing. Michael brushed a hand along the lean side down to the hip, then he continued to nuzzle his way along the pale slender neck.

Beelzebub let his legs fall open in a blatant invitation. The archangel settled more comfortably between them and smiled seductively. He leaned forward into another kiss, feeling explorative hands run over his upper body and he couldn’t but grind their hips together. The demon moaned into the mouth ravaging his, pushing up, wanting more. Michael tore away, breathing hard, almost panting.

"Slow down," he told his lover, caressing the flushed face.

"Too fast for you, angel?"

The rough, husky voice tingled down his spine and Michael felt himself react to the taunt.

His fingers strayed to one perked nipple, running his nails over the little nub, and Beelzebub bit his lower lip.

The archangel started to kiss his way down his lover's sinewy form, paying attention to all those responsive spots he knew, and the demon reacted perfectly. Beelzebub moaned softly and when the angel reached a specific spot, he whispered an encouragement.

"Like?" Michael asked cheekily.

Red eyes flared a little. "Don't you dare stop…"

"Hm, so you like…"

"An-gel!"

Another grin and Michael devoted his attention to the hard evidence of Beelzebub's arousal.

The demon came with a harsh gasp and with his claws buried into the bed. Michael blanketed his body and held him as Beelzebub rode out the remaining shivers, the wings quivering, and he stroked over the damp hair. He caressed warm muscles under soft skin, the perfect body, the slender form, moving against him.

"Want you," he whispered into the nearest ear.

Red eyes crinkled with a smile and the demon purred.

"Turn?" Michael asked softly after a moment, his caressed never stopping.

There was a breathless second, then Beelzebub did just that.

The wings were still out.

Michael gazed at the back presented to him. There was no difference between angelic and demonic wings. They had all the same origin. Where his own where pristinely white, Beelzebub's were a midnight black. They were the same size, were muscular, and they were perfectly groomed. Michael touched the soft feathers, massaged the musculature, listened to every whisper and moan and plea. His hands stroked over the warm back, over the side, the back of his legs, and up again.

Beel was melting into the mattress, eyes half closed, rumbling with content and hissing now and then when Michael hit that special spot again. The rumble became a needy moan when he finally started on the wings.

He trusts me, Michael thought, astounded, breathless, stunned. He trusts me with his wings. I could hurt him so much right now. I could damage them, tear out the feathers, break the bones, and he wouldn't be fast enough to prevent me from doing it.

Wing damage was painful and it took the longest to heal, aside from a full body regeneration

The angel was aroused, highly aroused, and he moved against the pliant form underneath him, making Beelzebub shiver. Michael leaned over his lover, kissed the neck and peppered the shoulders with kisses.

"Mike…" the demon groaned. "Now…"

"Your growl is my command," the archangel answered, burying his fingers into the soft feathers as he buried himself into the willing body underneath him. Beelzebub jerked violently, a rough scream escaping his throat, followed by a deep moan as Michael started to move inside him. The archangel reached around his lover’s hips, closing his fingers around the hardness he knew so well, running them up and down the velvety length, smiling when Beelzebub jerked into his hand and groaned helplessly, wordlessly begging for more, deeper … to finally having mercy with the whimpering demon, taking them both over the edge with a few hard thrusts. He didn’t really register the faint ripping sound as another pillow met its fate.

 

*

 

Black wings encased him, kept him safe and warm. Michael played with the closest of the long ones, marvelling at its softness. No different, he thought again. Really no different.

Fallen angels.

Listening to the soft breaths of his lover, his heart beat, he enjoyed the contact of skin against skin, his cheek resting on Beel's chest.

Shouldn't I be holding you? he mused. Shouldn't I be the one comforting you?

Beelzebub had nearly died because of Craig. The lower demon probably had no idea what he had done, where exactly he had catapulted his superior, but Michael knew that Craig would find out soon. And it wouldn't be pleasant.

Into his musings, the wonder of what had happened here today intruded.

Beelzebub had turned his winged back to him. To him! An archangel. They had made love that way… the wings were still out…

He knew what that must have cost his lover. Demons didn't trust anyone, but Beelzebub had trusted him, the Enemy. With his wings. He had been vulnerable and he had trusted in Michael not to hurt him.

The archangel gazed at the black cocoon of softness, still unable to truly comprehend it all. But something inside of him was changing, and it was something he wasn't yet aware of. It was slow but persistent, and it was undeniable.

As well as permanent.

 

* * *

 

When the archangel walked into the shop, it was late in the afternoon, there were no customers and the shop was actually closed due to Aziraphale's decision to do a general inventory of his books. Crowley had just been able to keep him from considering a new paint job in 'light blue', which 'so nicely went together with the traditional wooden shelves' as one of his customers, a painter and interior decorator, had tried to convince the angel.

Crowley had kicked him out and told his angel in no uncertain terms that dark cream was fine, that the shelves were just shelves, and that if he had to do an inventory, why not do it now?

That they would be interrupted by one rather steaming archangel was something neither had foreseen.

Maybe they should have.

Within the last eighteen months, things had become complicated, especially since the archangel was never far from Beelzebub while on Earth.

Crowley's eyes darted around for whatever reason had infuriated the blond, but he could neither see nor feel Beelzebub.

This was either very good or very bad.

The second Michael bore down on him like a cruise missile, he decided it was very bad.

 

 

Aziraphale knew there was trouble brewing the moment he had an archangel in his shop again and exactly that archangel going for Crowley.

But he also had had enough.

The last six millennia had been a lot calmer than the last two years!

By far and large, Aziraphale was described as mild-mannered, mostly polite, rather prim and proper, liked his stereotypes, and had high moral obligations.

That was what people thought.

They didn't know the angel. They didn't know him at all.

Especially not after the Near-Apocalypse had opened his eyes to a few things. There was still the surface appearance of everything in the right order, but underneath that handsome exterior was something else. It was no longer purely angelic and had probably never been. It was mixed in with a dose of demonic and a sprinkle of humanity.

It was a volatile mixture.

It sometimes manifested.

It had stood up against Beelzebub.

Now that an archangel was holding his demon by the throat, squeezing a little, and Crowley was hissing and spitting, the manifestation happened once more.

And there was no way Michael could ignore it.

 

 

"Who have you told already?" the archangel snarled and blue eyes bore into snake ones.

Crowley sputtered and fought the instinct to bury his claws in the angel's arm. He knew it would get only worse if he did. Not that it could get much worse than having an archangel squeeze the living daylights out of him.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" he wheezed.

"You read my name! You know my name! Who else did you tell?"

"Put him down."

Crowley felt something shiver along his spine when he heard the voice and his demonic side whimpered in recognition.

"Oh fuck…" he coughed.

Michael froze and blinked, surprise registering on his face. He glanced over his shoulder and the blue eyes widened at the sight of the aura hissing and snapping around a rather irate Aziraphale.

"Put him down and nobody gets hurt!" the lower angel commanded.

Crowley had no illusions that his lover was really able to fight an archangel, not even with those weird powers. Michael could still rip him to pieces, but at least Aziraphale would take a few of Michael's pieces with him.

"You would dare to attack me?" the archangel asked.

"Oh, he would," Crowley croaked. "He already had a go at Beelzebub."

Michael gave him a cold look, then dropped him. "I can see where you have changed, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale glared back.

"You have grown a backbone worthy of a higher angel." Michael tilted his head.

"Get out," Aziraphale growled.

"Not before I know to who this spawn of evil has told my name to!"

"I didn't!" Crowley argued. "Why should I? It's not like I hang out with a lot of my old buddies. Yes, I saw your name, but so did Aziraphale. And your lover."

"Beel is no problem of yours. And Aziraphale is an angel," Michael rumbled.

"No, ex," Crowley corrected. "He got kicked out. By Him in person. So he could, theoretically, sell you out, too. Why always go for the demon, huh?"

"Because you would sell me out," Michael snarled.

Aziraphale walked over to where Crowley was still leaning against the wall, massaging his abused throat.

"Neither of us will sell you out, Michael. Yes, we know your name, and yes, we're free agents, but neither Crowley nor I will do anything about this."

Blue eyes met blue eyes and Michael finally nodded.

"Next time," Aziraphale added softly, "how about asking first?"

The archangel stiffened, something flickering over his features, then he just turned and left.

"Oh, thank you," Crowley muttered hoarsely. "I feel okay. No harm done. Freak."

Why always him? Why the poor little demon?

Aziraphale touched his arm and shot him a questioning look. His other hand gingerly touched the abused throat.

"You okay?" he wanted to know, the worry quite audible in his voice now.

"Yeah, yeah. Getting used to it."

There was a trickle of warmth and angelic healing dispersed the rest of the ill effects. Crowley smiled at him.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

And I hope we saw the last of him for a good, long time.

Whatever had happened for Michael to realize that they all knew his true name, he suspected it had something to do with Beelzebub.

 

 

The rest of the day was spent doing everything but inventory. Both had left the shop and ended up in St. James Park, as usual. The ducks had been fed and the two men were sitting on a bench, Aziraphale huddled up in his coat. A scarf was wrapped around his neck and he was sitting very close to Crowley. The demon was wearing his own thick coat, muttering about the cold.

"Zira?" he finally broke the companionable silence.

"Hm?"

He studied the face now a shade of very nice pink from the cold, the blue eyes glowing with an inner warmth.

"Would you trust me with your true name?" he asked a question he had been thinking about ever since the discovery of Michael's name.

Aziraphale gazed at him, eyes wide open, hiding nothing, and he touched Crowley's face with a gloved hand.

"Yes. Do you want to know?" he returned the question.

Crowley swallowed. He knew what a true name meant. Demons had them, too. Actually, demons had two kinds of names. One was their former angelic one. They used them to sign contracts. It was their so-called birth-name. Then there was the one they had taken on when they had Fallen. And in the end, the true name.

"Yes," he answered honestly, "but not for free."

The demon leaned forward and brushed his lips over an ear, whispering one single word - a name.

Aziraphale froze, staring at him.

"Crowley…?"

"I trust you, Zira. I love you and I belong to you already." He pulled back and framed the rosy face. "You know everything about me. Everything. Why not this as well?"

Aziraphale stared at him in shock, then hugged in him tightly. "Oh dear," he whispered.

Crowley chuckled weakly. Aziraphale was the only one he would ever trust this completely. His angel was the only being who had gone through so much with him and Crowley knew they were completely interwoven by now, bound together, and that this was the final step, in a way.

Aziraphale knew exactly what he had just done.

"It's beautiful," the angel murmured. "Like you."

"I'm a demon, Zira."

The embrace tightened again. "Beautiful," Aziraphale repeated. "I will never abuse it."

"I know."

"Crowley… I trust you," Aziraphale told him softly. "I have trusted you with a lot more than I ever thought I would, and my name is nothing compared to my life and my soul."

The demon felt something inside of him clench tightly. The true name was like possessing a soul; it was ultimate power.

And he whispered a name. It was… incredible. It was powerful. It was wholly divine and without equal. It shone and it touched Crowley, whose mouth opened, but no sound came out.

They looked at each other, aware that there was no going back, and neither of them had ever considered it anyway. Crowley took the lips in a gentle, deep and loving kiss. He felt his angel's cool skin, his warm mouth, his gentle aura, and he let his own intermingle.

Resting their foreheads against each other, the two immortals remained where they were, ignoring the world around them.

 

 

In an Archive no one but one person had access to, two names glowed softly, then disappeared from the records.

That one person was watching, smiling to Himself.

"Perfect," He only said. "As Planned."

 

* * *

 

Craig had made it all across the globe, leaving false traces everywhere. He was doing his best never to stay long anywhere, to leave enough clues that he had been in this place, and then leave a few more than told whoever was hunting him that he could have done into every direction from here. Craig didn't think it would take the demons Beelzebub had definitely sent after him all that long to find the next clue or wrong trail, eliminating that, but he was thorough.

And in the end he wanted to leave this realm anyway. He would keep a low profile for a while, then sneak away. Everything had been planned for. He had his resources and he could hide out with a few sects and black magic circles to diffuse the trail a little, maybe tire his pursuers enough to get some of them to give up.

What was strange was the fact that it was apparently taking his pursuers so long to get going. He had thought he had about a day, max. He had had a week, which was nice.

But there was something Craig hadn't counted on.

Beelzebub was taking this personally.

He had no way of knowing just what his victim had gone through, where he had sent the Prince of Hell, and how much fury had built up.

No, he hadn't counted on that.

 

 

He left the house of a kid who thought of himself as a black wizard and who was just a pimply youth with bad teeth, no idea about girls, and too much free time and money on his hands. All well and good, Craig had decided. The perfect victim for him to spend a few days with. The kid even had a Necronomicon, even if it was a really bad copy from out of a copy shop.

Whistling to himself, Craig went down the street to a pub he had discovered earlier this week and that served a decent pint.

He didn't get far.

He ran into a wall. Almost literally.

"Uh, 'scuse me," he mumbled, then froze.

There was an aura. A dark aura. A very pissed off aura…

Wide eyes grew even wider as they travelled up the dark-clad individual he had run into.

Craig squeaked.

Craig tried to run.

But he never had a chance.

A hand like a vice clamped down on his neck and pulled him back, then lifted him off his feet so he was eye to eye with a very… calm… Prince of Hell.

Craig knew he was dead.

A calm Beelzebub was not a good sign.

"Sir…" he whimpered.

"You went too far, Craig, my friend," Beelzebub said pleasantly. "Attack and attempted murder of your superior might be laudable under different circumstances, but I don't take such things lightly."

"I… I… attack? Murder?" he echoed.

White fangs were revealed in a terrible smile. "Welcome home, Craig."

Craig wailed in terror, but no one heard him. The two demons disappeared and the people who populated the street never even suspected what had happened right in their midst.


End file.
